Ramus heeled the pony on through the icy streets. Snow was swirling again, and the night was bitter cold. Two soldiers of the Night Watch, heavily wrapped in black cloaks, appeared from Potter’s Street. They stood for a moment watching the old man on the fat pony, then moved on. Ramus rode halfway down Potter’s Street, and turned left into Shoe Lane. The way was unlit, but candles and lanterns shone in windows, casting a glow over the snow-covered cobbles.
The pony plodded on. Ramus found the gate leading to Bramble Field. Here, on what was once common land, some twenty or so rough-built huts had been erected. Originally they were for transient workers who arrived in the summer seeking casual employment. Now run down, they were used to house the sick and the dying who had no homes of their own, and no money for rent.
Ramus saw a watchman sitting before a glowing brazier, and rode over to him. ‘Good evening to you,’ said the apothecary.
‘Are you lost, man?’ asked the watchman.
‘No. I am seeking the house of Maldrak.’
‘Don’t know the name.’
‘A retainer of the Moidart’s. I am told he was moved here some days ago.’
‘Oh, aye. Stinks of piss and blood. I know him. Fourth hut on the right.’
Ramus thanked the man and rode on. Tethering the pony behind the hut out of the wind Ramus entered the ramshackle building. There was but a single room, with a narrow bed and two rickety chairs. There was an old brazier^ but it held no coals, and there were no candles. In the faint light of the moon shining through the doorway Ramus could see old Maldrak lying on the bed. He appeared to be asleep.
Ramus trudged back to the watchman. ‘I need a lantern and some coal and kindling,’ he said.
‘It’ll be wasted on him, man. He’s dying. He’s been pissing blood ever since he came here.’ The watchman made no move to rise from his stool.
‘Tell me where I might find what I need,’ said Ramus.
‘It’ll cost you. Coal don’t come cheap.’
‘My understanding is that the poor souls moved here are guaranteed food, coal and candle until they die,’ said Ramus, his voice calm. ‘But I shall pay you two daens for fetching what I need.’
‘Three daens might persuade me to leave my fire,’ said the watchman.
‘Then three daens it shall be,’ said Ramus. ‘But I’ll require a full lantern, if you please.’
Within the hour Ramus had the brazier glowing in Maldrak’s hut, and, by the light of a lantern, was examining the old man. His skin was hot and dry to the touch, and there was a large lump just above his groin. The thin sheet below him was stained with blood and urine, and he drifted in and out of consciousness.
‘I’ll be right as rain in a few days,’ he said, opening his eyes and seeing Ramus. ‘Just need a bit of rest, that’s all.’
‘You are losing blood, my friend.’
‘No, not blood,’ insisted Maldrak. ‘I bin eating beetroot. Just beetroot, see?’
Ramus sat quietly. The fear in the man’s voice made him pause. The apothecary had brought with him several bottles of fever-reducing potions, and one which would help dull the pain. Only this last would be of any use to the old man. Ramus looked around the squalid room. Maldrak had served the Moidart’s family for more than fifty years and this was his reward. Left to die in a cold and barren hut. ‘Can I get you something to eat or drink, apothecary?’ asked Maldrak.
‘No, thank you,’ answered Ramus, aware that there was nothing here, not a water jug, not even a stale loaf.
‘Good of you to visit. My wife is out tonight. Otherwise she’d cook you a meal.’ His wife had been dead for twenty years. ‘How’s the little pony?’
‘She is well.’
‘Nice little creature. I’ll give you some apples to take away with you.’
‘How are you feeling, Maldrak? Is there much pain?’
‘Just a bit. Pulled muscle, I think. It’ll heal, right enough.’ The old man dozed briefly. When he awoke he talked again for a while, then paused. ‘Are you the priest?’ he asked.